The Diary of the World's Sadness

Yesterday, I spent a good part of the day going through the net, the endless breathing labyrinth.  Blogs about worlds trying to not fall apart.  I read some introductions, some poetry, a lot of ramblings.  Some blogs were like doors inviting to another blog or another site or another kind of another something.  One blog too many was about coping with unhappiness one day at a time; another about instructions on how to be happy.  I closed the laptop wondering if it was at all a time well spent; otherwise, there's something to be had working with one's hands.  Where there'd be less conversation, less words, but there: a piece.

Not much was said when the floor to ceiling bookshelves were made; all the wood put together.  But it was there: love.

My dogs don't have words to say.  But they're always close; and their company, unconditional.

And while all my life I think I have always loved words, I think too much too many of them makes them hollow, and empty.  

No surprise there that my best thoughts of you are our times together wordless, soundless in memory.